


sword & crown

by mywordsflyup



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cadash as Companion, Dwarven Carta (Dragon Age), F/F, Letters, Pining, minor Dalish/Skinner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:12:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4631691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/pseuds/mywordsflyup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The leader of Thedas’ fastest-growing military organization has a face like an open book and Cadash doesn’t know if she should be horrified or delighted by it.</i>
</p><p>When one is sent to act as liaison between the Carta and the Inquisition, there are three simple rules one should keep in mind: Keep your ears and eyes open, play your cards close to your chest, and, whatever you do, do NOT fall in love with the Inquisitor.<br/>Cadash has always been a rule breaker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. difficult

They tell her the Inquisitor is difficult, which is a word Cadash hates. They say she is not easy to get to know and even harder to like. They also say she is an excellent leader. Inspiring, headstrong. Committed to be point of self-sacrifice. There is even a story about her facing an Archdemon on her own and letting herself be buried by an avalanche to save her people. But humans talk a lot when the night is long and the drink is strong, so Cadash is not quite convinced by that particular tale. 

Before she even arrives at Skyhold, she has heard so much about the Inquisitor, she feels like she has already met the elf that has them all flocking to her cause. What they have failed to mention, however, is that the Inquisitor is also very cute. 

Cadash is willing to let them get away with it, just this once. Perhaps seeing the fabled Herald of Andraste in that sort of light would be asking too much of humans who still evoke their Maker’s name whenever they hear a bump in the night or burn their tongue on some hot stew. Cadash does not understand religion. But she understands how someone can rise up in the world and somehow become less of a person because of it. She has seen it happen before, time and time again. Titles and reputation. Rumors and history. That is all that remains in the end. 

And Cadash has always preferred to find out things on her own anyway. 

The Carta reaches Skyhold sometime in late spring and after one week it seems as if they have taken over the fortress. Within days, there are dwarves everywhere. Short stocky figures in every room and every hallway. Opening stands with wares in the courtyard. Loud throaty laughter echoing from the high walls. And, perhaps most impressively, they have claimed the Herald’s Rest for their own. It has previously been firmly in the hand of a group of mercenaries but the dwarves have managed to charm their way in - not in small part because of Cadash. 

After a month on the road with only a few Inquisition soldiers as company, she finds The Chargers a charming relief. It isn’t that the soldiers have treated her and the other Carta representatives badly but they have all been very Andrastian. And very human. And very dull. Cadash likes her drinking companions interesting. And what could be more interesting than a one-eyed Qunari and his group of misfit mercenaries? 

After the first night, everyone knows her name. After three days, half the tavern somehow seems to be in her debt. After five days, she has beat the rest so mercilessly at Diamondback that they owe her as well. Any ill-will that may have caused, she drowns in drinks and laughter and promises of a chance to get even. 

It is Day Six and she has yet to catch a glimpse of the famous Inquisitor. Lavellan is everywhere in name and spirit. The topic at the edge of every conversation. The presence that seeps through every stone of the fortress. Even the blighted tavern is named after her. Not her real name, of course, but the one the people have given her - that faceless mass with more power than any god or his bride could ever wield. 

Had Cadash expected a religious figure as grand and unmoving as the famed Andraste herself, she would have been disappointed. The woman that finally pushes open the tavern’s heavy oak door one night is a lanky uncomfortable thing. With large pointed ears, a shock of unruly hair on top of her head and somewhat of a permanent frown between her eyebrows. She is pretty, in a way, with her smooth dark skin and the markings of the Dalish on her high cheeks. Nice eyes, Cadash thinks. Even better lips. 

It is not the most appropriate first reaction and if her mother were here, she would undoubtedly scold her for it. If everything goes right, the Inquisition will be a valuable business partner. But if things go even better, they might just be the ally the Cadash family desperately needs to establish their business across Ferelden and Orlais. She is here on a mission. And unfortunately the Inquisitor’s lips have precious little to do with that. 

She can tell it is the Inquisitor by the way the volume in the tavern drops considerably for a moment before picking up again. Heads turn and conversations come to a stuttering halt as the woman makes her way through the crowd. She pretends not to notice but even from her spot on the other end of the room, Cadash can see her ears twitching nervously. 

“Now that is a rare sight,” a low voice says next to her and Cadash looks up into the face of The Iron Bull towering over her, his good eye gleaming with something she cannot quite read. Surprise, perhaps. Or intrigue. 

“I take it the Herald of Andraste doesn’t make it to her Rest as often as the name would suggest?” Cadash takes a sip of ale, trying not to gawk too obviously. She does not think that she can fool Bull, but it is always good to put on a show of healthy disinterest, just in case. 

On the other end of the table, Krem snorts into his tankard, foam flying up into his face. “We could count the times on two hands, more like.” 

“Perhaps you should ask her to come over,” Cadash says, still not looking up. But she can see the elf from the corner of her eye. There is something hesitant in the Inquisitor’s stance as she stops in the middle of the room, obviously uncertain where to go next. Not what Cadash has expected from the Inquisition’s leader after all those stories.

Bull shoots her a glance, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Don’t be disappointed when she shoots you down.” But he raises one of his gigantic hands and bellows the Inquisitor’s name. She actually flinches and Cadash feels something like pity coiling in her stomach. She has seldom seen someone so out of place. 

The Inquisitor comes over to them, after a moment of hesitation that’s just a little bit too long to not offend. She moves like an animal, wary but not without grace, weaving her way through the room. Stopping in front of their table, she frowns. It seems to be the only form of greeting they will get out of her. 

“Inquisitor,” Krem says, flashing his most dashing smile which only earns him a small tight-lipped nod. “Come sit with us.” 

“Yeah, have a drink. Ale’s on me tonight.” Bull grins. “And food is on our new dwarven friend.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes flick to Cadash. “I have already eaten.” There is the same wariness in her voice and Cadash’s smile widens in response. 

“I’m happy to provide breakfast instead, if that is more to your liking.” She winks and is rewarded with a scowl of unparalleled irritation. 

“I don’t eat breakfast.” 

Cadash has to bite her tongue to keep herself from laughing out loud. Difficult, she thinks, might be the right word after all. And an understatement at that. 

“Ale then,” Bull chimes in and scoots over on the bench to make space. The Inquisitor sits, albeit a bit gingerly and at Bull’s nod, a red-haired serving girl places a tankard of ale in front of her. 

Another attempt then. “I am Cadash.” She offers her hand but the Inquisitor just stares at it like one would at a particularly nasty snake until Cadash places it back around her own tankard’s handle. She keeps her smile, however. 

“Lavellan.” The Inquisitor keeps her back straight and her drink untouched. 

Cadash leans forward, propping up her elbows on the tabletop and musters something that she hopes passes for an innocent expression. “So, _Lavellan_.” She puts a special emphasis on the name that has the Inquisitor’s scowl deepen and Krem shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “What brings you down here?” 

Bull makes a noise that could have been a snort but that he turns into an excessively loud cough instead. 

Finally, Lavellan takes a sip from her ale. “I was told that I needed to be more social.” 

It is so blunt and strange that Cadash can feel her smile falter for just a heartbeat. “Really? And who told you that?”

A wary glance over the rim of her tankard. “My advisors.”

Now, Bull truly does snort. “Don’t tell me Cullen said that. That man would do good to take his own advice.”

Lavellan shoots him a sideways look, not quite angry but also not particularly pleased. “The Commander has a lot of work.”

“And you don’t?” Cadash asks innocently.

Something almost like a smile tugs at the corner of Lavellan’s lips. “Who says this isn’t work?” 

“Well, if it is, it’s the very best kind.” 

The way Lavellan scowls into her ale tells just how debatable she finds this statement. But she stays, taking small sips now and then. The Chargers are much less intimidated by her presence than the rest of the tavern and after a few minutes of awkwardness, the conversation dropped at her entrance is picked up again. Lavellan listens and Cadash watches her from the corner of her eye. 

The Inquisitor does not say anything but the expressions on her face are a very good indicator for whether she finds a topic utterly intolerable or only slightly irritating. The leader of Thedas’ fastest-growing military organization has a face like an open book and Cadash doesn’t know if she should be horrified or delighted by it. 

As soon as she has finished her ale, Lavellan gets up. “Thank you for the drink, Bull,” she says and then nods stiffly at the rest of them. “This was enjoyable,” she adds with the air of someone whose teeth have just been pulled out with rusty pliers. 

The others regard her goodbye with varying degrees of relief and discomfort, but Cadash finds herself smiling despite the awkwardness. Or perhaps because of it. “You should join us again some time,” she says and it earns her incredulous looks from everyone involved, including the Inquisitor. “Or perhaps one of these days I can convince you of the advantages of breakfast after all.” 

Lavellan makes a noise at the back of her throat that makes her sound eerily like that Seeker who hacks away at the dummies in the training yard at all hours of the day. But there is something not completely dismissive in the look that she gives her. Once the Inquisitor has left, Cadash settles back into her seat and takes a large gulp of ale. Bull smirks as he orders a new round. 

“That one might be too tough of a nut to crack. Even for someone as charming as you,” he says, just a hint of a warning in his voice. 

“We will see about that.” Cadash rests her chin on her hands and smiles most innocently. “So you think I’m charming, huh?”


	2. convincing

Two days later, she is back. Just as awkward and the frown is still in place, but Cadash does not comment on it when she makes space on the bench next to her.

“I was just hoping some gorgeous creature would come along and buy me a drink,” she says. “And here you are.” 

Lavellan scowls but fishes some coins out of her pocket. It’s way too much, silver and even a sovereign, and the way she drops the money on the table reminds Cadash that the Inquisitor spent most of her life in a Dalish clan. Not much need for money there, she supposes. If it were anyone else, she might have considered taking advantage. But she is not that awful. Most of the time. 

Instead, she takes one of the silver coins and pushes the rest gently back towards Lavellan. “This is more than enough. Your ale is not that great, Herald.” 

Lavellan blinks, her stern expression faltering for a heartbeat. “Don’t call me that.” 

Cadash nods and does not even consider teasing. You don’t mess around with people’s names. They stick to the ones they are given or the ones that they have taken for themselves and Cadash finds there is almost always a good reason behind it. 

“Alright, sorry. _Lavellan_ ,” she says with emphasis. “Put the rest of your money away. I don’t think anyone here is dumb enough to rob you but you shouldn’t flaunt. It’s not polite.” She winks and lifts a hand to signal the serving girl. 

Lavellan scoops up the coins and puts them back into her pocket. “Where is Bull?” 

“What? Is my company not enough? You wound me!” When this does not get more of a reaction than another frown, Cadash sighs. “Probably in the yard, still training with Krem. The rest of the Chargers are around here somewhere…” 

As if on command, Skinner and Dalish slide onto the bench opposite of them, just as the serving girl arrives with their drinks. Lavellan’s coin buys them two more ales for the new arrivals and Cadash realizes she hasn’t been surrounded by this many elves for years. The last time everyone involved was wearing a lot less clothes, but she is not about to get nitpicky. When she expresses the thought out loud, Dalish’s laugh sounds through the tavern like a bell while even Skinner shows something close to a smile. Lavellan just makes that noise again, a sound so utterly dry and harsh it’s unintentionally comical. 

The conversation after that is slow and stilted but at least it’s something. Skinner’s social graces rival even the Inquisitor’s but Dalish is happy enough to deliver small talk enough for the both of them. If Cadash is honest, it’s mostly Dalish talking and herself commenting from time to time, while Skinner eyes the room suspiciously and the Inquisitor drinks her ale in silence. It’s as comfortable as it gets with two scowling elves at the table but Cadash has drunk with a worse crowd before. Surely. 

Lavellan has almost finished her drink and Cadash can sense her becoming restless when Dalish wiggles out of Skinner’s arms and leans forward. “So, you are Dalish as well, right?” 

Lavellan looks like she might make a snappy remark, irritation plain on her face. But then she just nods stiffly. “I am.” 

Dalish sighs and rest her chin on her hands. “I hear you were your Keeper’s First. I could never do that. All that history. I was never one for studying. Couldn’t even remember the whole Pantheon until I was ten.” 

Skinner sniggers into her ale but does not comment further. Instead she curls her fingers at the base of Dalish’s neck when she leans back. 

“I was an honor. But my responsibility is the Inquisition now.” Everything about it sounds rehearsed and Cadash shoots Lavellan as sidelong glance. The elf’s jaw is set tightly and her fingers grab the tankard in front of her just a little bit too hard. There is a story there, Cadash guesses.

“Of course I never even considered it. That is a mage’s position,” Dalish says a little too quickly and Skinner rolls her eyes. 

Lavellan’s eyes dart back and forth between them, clearly trying to figure out if they are making fun of her. Cadash cannot blame her for it. She has never met an apostate who was as obvious about it as Dalish. 

“So now that you are here,” Cadash intervenes, “who has taken your place at home?”

Lavellan shrugs, just a hint too defensively. “Our Keeper’s Second, I presume.”

“So there is a system in place?”

“Isn’t there always?” Skinner asks and empties her drink, one hand still playing with Dalish’s hair. 

“But what if you decide to go home?” Dalish leans forward and cocks her head. “After all this?”

It’s too much and Cadash immediately can tell by the way the Inquisitor starts squirming in her seat, the pitiful rest of her ale forgotten. She grips the edge of her seat instead, every muscle in her body taut. “I don’t think I will,” she finally says, almost too quiet to make out. 

Definitely a story then. 

Neither Skinner nor Dalish have the tact to change the topic, perhaps too drunk or too preoccupied with their own wandering hands under the table. Cadash opens her mouth to speak before her brain can come up with something smart to say. But she is too late anyway. Lavellan has already slipped out of her seat and is brushing some non-existent lint from her tunic. 

“Thank you for your company,” she says without really looking at any of them. And then, just like at the end of their first night, “This was enjoyable.” It is a sentence learned by heart and practiced in her head before she came down here. Cadash is sure of it now. Embarrassment coils in her stomach as she looks up into Lavellan’s anxious face. 

“Any time,” she finally says before the moment is over. She is surprised by how soft her own voice sounds and Lavellan shoots her a look that tells her she is just as confused by the change of tone. 

She should say something else, Cadash thinks. Something to defuse the situation. But her mind draws blank - a startling and disconcerting new sensation - and before she can find the right words, Lavellan has left the tavern. 

 

She comes more often after that. Not every night but frequent enough for the others to take notice. Soon, the patrons do not stop dead in their tracks every time she enters the room and Cadash can see how that alone takes the tension right out of Lavellan’s shoulders. The Inquisitor does not like the attention - a trait that can only be a hindrance in her current occupation. 

Drinking with the Chargers and the rest of Carta representatives is ideal for her. A group large and loud enough to swallow her and carry her with them without much fuss. She usually slinks into her seat a little later than the others, drinks and stays quiet. They quickly learn not to say too much to her or to ask too many questions. 

She switches from ale to cider which she seems to find more agreeable since she stops leaving immediately after finishing her drink and sometimes even stays for a second round. 

From the other end of the table, Cadash watches her and wonders. 

 

Things are easier when Bull is around. Cadash can only marvel at the way he moves around Lavellan. Steady and slow and almost soft for someone his size. It is not quite an act - it would unfair to even call it that. It is consideration. His way to make her feel more at ease. Sometimes, Cadash catches her smiling at his jokes, even the bawdy ones. 

Krem and Rocky have been riling up their chief all night about the upcoming trip to Halamshiral. An invitation to the Winter Palace and Bull has been chosen to attend. Rocky thinks the thought of him in Orlesian finery hilarious while Krem offers to sew the jacket himself. Maybe add a few secret pockets for snacks. The conversation finally drifts into a story about the last time the Chargers dealt with Orlesian nobles - a tale that entails a lot more nudity and public urination than even Cadash would have expected. 

“And the night still ended with the Chief dancing with that old dowager,” Stitches says and laughs into his tankard. “And you didn’t even break her toes!”

Bull huffs. “Excuse me? I’m an excellent dancer.”

“Ben-Hassrath training, I’m sure?” Cadash cannot stop herself from saying and smiles up at him most innocently. 

His eye gleams in the low light as he returns her smile. “You’d be surprised.” He sighs theatrically. “And Josephine still has me taking dance lessons. As if I’m actually planning to dance in front of any of those Orlesians.” 

“She is forcing all of us,” Lavellan suddenly says, low but loud enough to be heard over the noise of the other patrons. 

“I’m sure there is much more use in teaching the Inquisitor.” 

Lavellan looks up and cocks an eyebrow. “Yes, I’m sure Corypheus is going to appreciate my perfect waltz step just before I stab him in the kidney.” 

Cadash pricks up her ears. The Inquisitor is funny. Who would have thought? It’s a strange kind of humor, quiet and dry as a bone but it’s there. And Cadash notices. The way Lavellan sets her jaw and recedes back to sipping from her tankard after no one reacts, tells Cadash that perhaps she wants it to be noticed, too. 

 

The Chargers leave Skyhold for a special mission to whatever is left of Haven. And for once, the Iron Bull goes with them. The Herald’s Rest is quieter without his laugh but it serves Cadash just as well. After a long day of negotiations over lyrium shipments, she is exhausted with just the slightest hint of a budding headache. Finding the tavern at an almost civil volume is more than a relief after that. 

Despite the Chargers’ absence, there are no free tables and she spots no one she knows well enough to just sit down. Instead, she climbs onto one of the stools by the bar and rests her pounding forehead on her folded arms. 

Cabot pushes a tankard towards her and she groans at the smell. It’s something he claims comes straight from Orzammar and which he is only willing to serve to fellow dwarves. He also claims that it’s ale, even though it is black and smells a bit like burned nug shit. All Cadash knows is that the stuff tastes vile and gets her drunk quicker than anything else. 

“I don’t think it’s been that bad of a day,” she says and pushes the tankard away from herself. 

“Now, don’t leave a man hanging,” Cabot chides and lifts his own tankard encouragingly. Sometimes Cadash wishes he was just as grumpy in her presence as he seems to be around everyone else. Surely the others would never be coerced into drinking strange Orzammar booze. Grudgingly she downs the stuff and presses the back of her hand against her mouth to keep herself from coughing. A futile effort. 

She has just recovered from both drink and coughing fit when the door to the tavern opens to let in a gust of cold air and Lavellan. Sensing her opportunity to avoid another round of dwarven culture, Cadash slides off her seat and makes her way towards the elf. 

As always, Lavellan looks a bit lost as she is scanning the room for familiar faces. 

“Please save me from Cabot and his dwarven ale,” Cadash says and reaches out to grab Lavellan’s arm. It’s only when her fingers touch the fabric of her sleeve that she realizes that it might not be the best course of action. Lavellan’s eyes flick to Cadash’s hand on her arm and then back to her face, eye widened in something that could be shock or amusement. Cadash blames the ale and takes a step back, just in case. “Sorry.”

Lavellan’s hand brushes against the spot where Cadash touched her and it doesn’t look like she is completely aware of what she is doing. “I came for a drink”, she says. 

“Well, not for that one. Trust me.” Cadash cock her head. “The Chargers aren’t here. You would have only me for company. If that is alright with you.” 

As usual, Lavellan’s reply comes just a heartbeat too late but this time it’s accompanied by something that could almost be called a smile. “I don’t mind.” 

“In that case, let me get you something to drink and then we’ll find a table.” 

The first part of her plan is easy enough. Regular ale for her and cider for Lavellan. The second part, however, proves to be a little bit more difficult. Despite or perhaps because of the Inquisitor’s presence, the task of finding a free table turns out to be an impossible one. After several fruitless rounds around the room, they move up to the first floor - something that Cadash has never had to do. 

Away from the music and the light of the fire, the upper floor of the tavern is almost cozy. There are candles on the tables and windows looking out into the courtyard but this late at night, the room lies in semi-darkness. A few heads turn to look at them when they reach the top of the stairs but nobody pays them any real attention.

There are no free tables up here either, however. Ana, one of Cabot’s serving girls is busy rushing from one table to the next, a heavy tablet loaded with drinks in her hand. Cadash swears under her breath. At the edge of her vision, she sees Lavellan twitching nervously. She guesses the Inquisitor is ready to bolt and somehow the prospect of spending the evening alone with her ale seems too awful to bear all of a sudden. 

“Wait a moment,” she says, not sure if to herself or if to stop Lavellan from leaving. She looks around, scanning the faces of the patrons for an opportunity. By now there is hardly anyone in the keep she doesn’t know at least by sight. 

The tables on the first floor are smaller, suited for two people rather than for a group. At the end of the room, tugged away in a particularly dark corner, she spots two soldiers that are usually part of a larger group that trains with Knight Captain Rylen. Unlike the other patrons, they are not deep in conversation. One of them is watching Ana while the other is staring into the depth of his tankard. 

Perfect. 

Cadash refrains from tugging at Lavellan’s sleeve but gestures her to follow. “I take it you are not comfortable with playing the Inquisitor card?” she asks as they make their way through the room. 

“Not really.” 

“That’s what I thought. Oh well…” She looks over her shoulder and winks at Lavellan. “I think we might be able to manage without it.” 

They reach the table but the soldiers don’t look up until Cadash puts her drinks down on the table with just a little bit more force than necessary. “Evening boys,” she says and smiles. The one who can hardly take his eyes off Ana’s swaying backside looks up, annoyance plain on his face. 

“What do you want?”

“Well, if we are being this blunt, your table.” 

The second soldier scoffs into this ale. “Yeah? Tough luck. We like it here.”

Neither of them seem to notice Lavellan who keeps in the shadows behind Cadash. Just as well. 

“See, I thought you would say that,” Cadash says, making no move to remove the drinks from the table. “So I have a proposition.” 

The second man, a big guy with a thrice broken nose and small beady eyes, looks up from his tankard and stares at her. “You’re that Carta dwarf,” he says like that explains everything. Cadash supposes it probably does. 

“The very one.” 

He sits up straighter, suddenly at least a little bit interested. Sometimes a reputation is not a bad thing to have. “So what does this proposition look like exactly?” 

She leans against the table and lowers her voice just enough to appear conspiratorial. “A piece of information for each of you. If you find it useful at all you’ll give us your table. Otherwise my friend and I leave and go bother someone else.” She leans in just a little bit closer and smiles. “But I promise you, you’ll find it useful.” 

The men look at each other, unspoken agreement passing between them. Cadash knows her own reputation. She has taken great care to cultivate it after all. The first soldier leans back in his seat and folds his arms. “Alright then,” he says, a slow grin spreading across his face.

Cadash shakes her head and tuts him lightly. “Not so fast. So we have a deal then? And I trust you won’t cheat a girl out of her fairly-won prize?” 

They shake on it and Cadash can hear Lavellan making an exasperated noise in the background. She has to keep herself from grinning. 

“So what is your information?” the first soldier asks. He looks almost smug about the whole thing but even now he cannot stop glancing in Ana’s direction as she serves a couple on the other side of the room. 

Cadash smiles as sweetly as she can manage. “Her name is Ana, in case you were wondering.” The man blushes like a child that was caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “And I have it on good authority that she prefers the direct approach. Just like fortune, she favors the bold. Staring at her like a mooncalf will do nothing for you.” 

The man opens his mouth but no words come out. He is looking over her shoulder to watch Ana descend the stairs and disappear out of view. 

While he is busy, Cadash turns to the second soldier. “I heard you are having problems with Knight Captain Rylen. I happen to know that he likes a certain Starkhaven whiskey. Awful stuff but Cabot always stores a bottle or two under the counter.” The man perks up, looking ready to jump to the bartender right there and then. Cadash tries hard not to roll her eyes. “Hold your horses. Don’t just buy it for him. He will think you are a kiss-ass. Wait until Rylen takes you and the others out for drinks after training. Then you order a round.” 

The men stare at her and for a moment no one says anything. She expected as much but Cadash still folds her arms and cocks an eyebrows. “So? Good enough?” 

It is. 

 

“How do you do that?” Lavellan asks as they sit down, her face in a frown and her hands gripping her tankard tightly. 

“Do what?”

“Get them to do what you want.” She nods towards the two soldiers now standing awkwardly in a corner across the room. 

Cadash laughs. “Don’t tell me that you need help getting your soldiers to do your bidding.” She thinks of the way the humans talked about the Inquisitor on their way to Skyhold. “They would follow you anywhere if you asked them to.” 

Lavellan shrugs, keeping her eyes fixed on the cider in front of her. “Perhaps. They respect me. But they…” She sighs. “I don’t think they like me very much.” 

It would cruel to lie but the truth seems just as harsh. “I didn’t think you cared,” Cadash says and Lavellan’s frown looks a whole lot more like uncertainty all of a sudden. 

“I don’t, usually.” She runs her finger over the rim of her tankard. “But you make it look so easy.” 

Cadash has to remind herself that this is the woman who had to be told to be more social like it was some kind of tedious task to get over with. She thinks about it for a moment, taking a sip of ale to bridge the silence. “It’s mostly about observation,” she finally says. “Reading people. Picking up on the things the feel. What they want and what they need.” 

Lavellan makes a face. “You say it like it’s logical.”

Laughing, Cadash sets down her tankard. “It is, really.” As discreetly as possible she gestures in the direction of the two soldiers. “Take those two, for example. I knew that at least one of them wouldn’t be able to sit still after hearing what I had to say. I figured it would be the one in love with the serving girl.” 

“So even if they had tried to cheat you they would have given up the table eventually?” 

Cadash nods. “Exactly.” A smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “See? Logical.” 

Lavellan rolls her eyes and the sight is as comical as it is unexpected. “Truly,” she says dryly. “I’m sure my advisors would be thrilled to hear about all the logical things I learn from you.” 

“Oh, I could teach you so much more than that. If you'd just let me.” Cadash winks and takes another sip. 

It earns her another eye-roll but also just the hint of a smile. And she finds that is really the only part she cares about.


	3. startling

Ice flowers creep up the window pane and the sun has not fully risen over the mountain tops yet. What little warmth the smoldering embers the fireplace still provide is swiftly overpowered by the cold seeping through the ancient walls of the keep. They told her the South would be cold. Cadash thinks they understated just how cold. Probably in a deliberate attempt to piss her off. 

If she could stay under the covers all morning she would. She has talked her way into one of the better rooms of the keep, right next to gardens and very obviously designed for visiting nobles. She is no noble but she also has an appreciation for plush carpets and fine tapestries. Also for the fireplace. The fireplace is important. 

There is a knock on the door, too loud and bold for it to be anyone but Karik. 

“Come in,” she calls and the door swings open to let in even more cold air. “But close the blighted door, will you?” 

Karik is tall for a dwarf, with a smile that makes up more than enough for the ragged scars that runs across his face. He also carries a ridiculously large maul like it weighs nothing and unlike Cadash, seems to be utterly unfazed by the Southern cold. At least that is what she takes away from the fact that he refuses to wear anything with sleeves.

“You’re still in bed,” he says. Sharp as a tack, that one. 

“How very observant of you. But fully dressed, I might add. Just miserably cold.”

“It’s a step in the right direction.” He leans his back against the closed door and folds his arms. “Are you going to take another or did I get up this early for nothing?” 

She huffs but kicks the blankets off her legs. “As if you wouldn’t have been up for hours anyway.” 

“Not after being stuck in negotiations with the Ambassador until late last night. Negotiations that you should have attended by the way.” 

She makes a face, half annoyance and half guilty conscience, and laces up her boots. “Sorry about that,” she says as she follows him out of the door. “Is Trenn very angry with me?”

Karik shrugs. “Not more than usual, I suppose. But you know, you really should try to make more of an effort. And not just to avoid Trenn’s wrath. You are your mother’s daughter, after all.” 

She is glad that the narrow staircase leading to the main hall forces him to walk in front of her and that she doesn’t have to look him in the face. He has this way about him that always makes her feel she should do better. A grown man should not have eyes like a Mabari pup and the power to actually make her feel bad about skirting her responsibilities. 

By the time they reach the practice yard, the sun stands high enough to illuminate the crenelation of the highest towers of the keep. The yard itself is still in the shadows, with frost crunching underneath the soles of their boots. 

This early there aren’t many people in the yard. The Commander’s soldiers usually do not start their training until after breakfast and even most of the Inquisition’s mercenary companies do not use the yard before noon. Cadash half expects to see the Seeker there but the only person hacking away at the dummies is significantly shorter and seems to be hitting the wooden figures with a staff rather than with a sword. The sharp clank of metal against wood cuts through the crisp morning air.

Karik drops his bag at the fence surrounding the practice ring and follows her gaze. His eyes widen just slightly. “Is that the Inquisitor?” 

Cadash shakes her head before she can even think about it but right then a flash of green proves her wrong. She has not seen the mark up close yet as Lavellan always keeps it hidden under a soft leather glove, but she has heard enough to recognize it now. “Oh.” 

“This is unexpected,” Karik says as he crouches down to pull two daggers out of his bag. “But I suppose even she needs to train, right?” 

“Do you want to meet her?” The words have left her mouth before she can stop herself. 

Karik looks up and cocks an eyebrow. “You just want to walk up to her and start talking?” He smirks. “Not that it would really surprise me.” 

“Ha-ha.” She scratches the back of her neck. “I kind of know her.” 

His smirk falters. “You what?” 

She has no reason to feel embarrassed about this but that does not stop her skin from tingling uncomfortably under the scrutiny of his stare. “We have drinks together occasionally. Well, usually we drink with the Chargers. And more recently… alone sometimes. Which you would know if you ever came to the tavern with me.” She adds the last part quickly, hoping to distract him. To no avail. 

“Oh, Malika…” He says her name in a tone she knows all too well. 

“It’s not like that.” Because it isn’t. “I just… know her. Kind of.” 

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything and just looks at her, a deep frown on his face. “Alright then,” he finally says and gets up. “Introduce me.” 

It is only when they walk up to the training dummies that she thinks Lavellan might not wish to be approached at all. Even though the Inquisitor’s visits to the tavern have become somewhat regular, Cadash has never spoken to her outside of the Herald’s Rest. And the last thing she want is to ambush Lavellan into an unwanted social interaction.

Lavellan has not noticed her yet but with Karik right behind her it is too late to back out now. They are close enough now to see that while Lavellan is using a staff, she is not using magic. Instead she makes use of the jagged blade at the end of the staff to stab and hack the wooden dummy in front of her from all angles. Cadash clears her throat. 

Lavellan whirls around, her staff still raised high. Her face is slick with sweat despite the cold. Outside of the soft tavern light she looks different. Sharper somehow, and Cadash takes an involuntary step backwards. . 

“Cadash,” Lavellan says, her voice hoarse from exertion, and recognition makes the expression on her face a little softer. “What are you doing here?” 

“Training. Same as you, I assume. At least that was the plan.” 

Lavellan nods stiffly but her eyes flick from Cadash’s face to something over her shoulder. Right. Of course. 

“This is my cousin Karik,” Cadash says and lets Karik step forward. For one short horrifying moment she thinks he is going to offer Lavellan his hand to shake. Or even worse, that he is going to bow. But thankfully he seems to be too stunned to remember his good manners. 

Instead, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and smiles his crooked smile. “Good morning, Your Worship.” 

It is difficult to say who cringes more at the use of the title but surprisingly it is Lavellan who recovers first. “I was not aware that you knew how to fight,” she says and Cadash cannot help the grin that spreads across her face. 

“I don’t, really. That’s why Karik is supposed to teach me.” She shrugs. “We are at war, after all.”

Lavellan runs her fingers along her staff. “Yes, that is what they keep telling me.” She sounds almost wistful but when she looks up there is just the hint of a smile on her lips. “In any case, it is comforting to know that there are some things that you do not know how to do.”

Cadash’s flippant remark dies on her lips when she remembers that she is still standing next to Karik. This is not the tavern. And her cousin would never let her live it down if she started to flirt with the Inquisitor right in front of him. Not that is truly flirting. Not really.

“We will let you get back to your training, Your Worship,” Karik says and this time he does bow, just as awkwardly as Cadash feels about the whole thing. 

Lavallen gives him an irritated look as if she only just noticed that he is there. She nods stiffly and as they walk back to the ring, Cadash thinks she can feel her watching them. 

“So you _do_ know her,” Karik says, his voice low and slightly amused. “Your mother would be so proud.” 

Cadash’s head snaps up and she looks at him sharply. “Don’t even start. That’s not what I’m doing.” 

He lifts his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Alright, no reason to bite my head off. And it would at least be an excuse for why you keeping missing those meetings with the Ambassador.” 

She doesn’t answer and keeps her back to him as she pulls two more daggers from the bag on the ground. Her hands aren’t quite shaking but she is still glad to give them something to do. It’s silly, really. He has not even accused her of anything but the mere implication stings just as much. 

They spar for the better part of an hour until the sun finally stands high enough to melt the frost on the ground. Cadash’s arms feel heavy and sore and she feels the kind of bristling annoyance that usually comes with being underwhelmingly mediocre at something. Even the few times she managed to hit Karik with one of her blunted blades are not enough to distract from the fact that she is really not that great at fighting. He, on the other hand, doesn’t even seem to have worked up a sweat. 

“Look at the bright side,” he says and gingerly runs a finger over the spot where one of her daggers scraped his knuckles. “You are getting better at this.” 

She makes a dismissive sound and drops the daggers back into the bag. Her finger feel stiff and painful after being exposed to the cold for so long and she tries to rub some warmth back into them. 

“Do you want to go to the kitchens and see if we can get some early breakfast?” Karik wiggles his eyebrows. She laughs and feels a bit of the annoyance evaporate. 

“Nah, I think I’m going to stay here and shoot a few arrows. Get some of my dignity back while I still can.” 

She watches him leave in the direction of the kitchen before turning around and strolling toward the corner of the yard with the archery targets. Lavellan is still training with her staff and while Cadash picks up one of the soldiers’ practise bows and a quiver from the weapon rack, her gaze keeps wandering over to her. There is something undeniably graceful about the way a mage fights. Even without the blinding lights and crackling that usually go hand in hand with spellcasting, watching Lavellan twirl the staff over her head before slamming it into the dummy’s side is rather impressive. She is stronger than she looks and from time to time hits the wood with such force that splinters fly into the air. 

Cadash does not want to stare, however mesmerizing the display may be, and takes her position in front of the targets so that her back is to Lavellan. The bow is short and heavy - the sort of blunt weapon with which the more inexperienced of the Inquisition’s soldiers usually train. But as she shoots the first arrow she finds it pleasant enough to work with. It takes a couple of arrows for her to find her rhythm but after that, she hits her mark nearly every time. It’s a good feeling, especially after that disastrous sparring session with Karik. Her finger are still cold and the freezing air has given her a runny nose, but there is a thrill to being good at something. Even if she is the only one to witness it. 

“You’re a good shot.” 

She almost drops the bow as she whirls around. Lavellan is standing right behind her, leaning on her staff and wiping the sweat from her brow with a small towel. 

“Thanks.” Cadash lowers her bow. She has never seen Lavellan this much at ease. There is nothing awkward or skittish about her now. Exhaustion has even gotten rid of her frown. 

“How come you never train here?” 

“Who says I don’t?” It’s a stupid and evasive question that only earns her the return of the frown.

“I’m here every morning and this is the first time I’ve seen you here.” Lavellan pauses for a moment and there is almost something teasing in her eyes when she continues. “I didn’t think you even got up this early.” 

Cadash laughs. “Oh, I don’t mind getting up early. I’m just less thrilled about the cold.” 

“You get used to it.” 

“That’s easy to say when you are wearing… How many exactly? Three coats?” 

Lavellan tugs at the fur collar around her neck and shakes her head. “Two. But point taken.” 

There is silence between them that would usually be filled with drinking, Cadash realizes. But outside the tavern there is nothing to distract them from it and it gets more uncomfortable with every passing second. 

“Your cousin,” Lavellan suddenly says, too loud and sudden to pass as casual. “He seems nice.” 

Cadash takes the quiver from her shoulder. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen him around here before. He is the one who trains regularly.” 

“I noticed. He is better than you.” 

It is too blunt and too typical for Lavellan to really be insulting and Cadash cannot help but laugh as she starts to pull the arrows out of the target. “You saw that? I guess I should be embarrassed.” 

“I did not mean to offend. I was merely…”

“Merely stating the obvious.” She looks over her shoulder and gives Lavellan a reassuring smile. “No harm in that.” She doesn’t allow herself to dwell on the fact that Lavellan must have watched them while they were sparring. 

“I am sure they are other things at which you are better than him,” Lavellan says. It’s surprisingly diplomatic coming from her. 

“Oh, yes.” Cadash pulls the last arrow out of the target. “He could not shoot straight if his life depended on it.”

Lavellan smiles, a rare sight that is almost dazzling in the morning sun. Cadash blinks and her fingers grips the bow a little tighter. “I will leave you to your practice then.” She turns to leave only to stop after two steps. There is a hint of that familiar awkwardness in the way she fiddles with her staff and takes a deep breath before she speaks. “Will I see you at the tavern tonight?” 

Too surprised for a witty reply, Cadash just nods. “I’m always there.” 

“I noticed.” Another smile, almost as startling as the first, and then she’s gone. 

After a moment, Cadash picks up her bow once more but somehow the arrows don’t seem to find their mark as easily as they did before.


	4. revealing

It becomes a ritual of sorts. The training yard in the morning and the tavern in the evening. Not that either of them ever says it out loud. It is just one of those things. A familiarity that creeps into their days like a weed strikes roots in the cracks of an old castle wall. And it’s not like they are ever truly alone, Cadash tells herself. Except for the hour after Karik marches off to breakfast and leaves her behind to lick her wounds and shoot arrow after arrow until her pride has recovered. Except for those rare nights when the tavern is full of strangers and they find themselves back at what has become _their_ table.

It’s not like Lavellan has become any more sociable. It’s not like things are any easier.

Except for when they are.

Cadash has missed another meeting with the Ambassador and she knows she has messed up when Karik fails to knock on her door at sunrise. It’s not a tactic or a punishment. She knows her cousin too well for that. It is genuine annoyance. Perhaps even a little bit of anger. Some part of her realizes that it’s probably for the best that she doesn’t have to face him and his daggers this morning.

She knows she should go and look for him. She knows she should apologize.

She goes to the training yard instead.

Hands tucked in her armpits against the cold and her face half hidden behind a thick woolen scarf, she makes her way across the yard. Lavellan is the only one already up and busy hacking away at the training dummies. The mornings are getting continuously colder and with every passing day the chance of meeting anyone but the Inquisitor this early becomes less and less.

Cadash lifts her hand in greeting and goes to pick out a bow. There is one she particularly likes - a yew longbow that is too well-made for the inexperienced recruits who usually train with it. But she does not have the heart to steal it for herself. Yet.

She is just about to check the arrows in her quiver when a shadow falls over her. Lavellan is panting, her heated skin steaming in the ice-cold morning air. She is also frowning, but that is nothing new, really.

“You were not in the meeting with Josephine last night,” she says and leans on her staff.

Cadash blinks. “That’s true. I didn’t know I would get a lecture about that from you however.”

“I did not mean to lecture. It was merely an observation.” Just a few weeks ago, Lavellan might have turned and left at this point. Instead, she grips her staff a little harder and stays.

“I did not know you would be there,” Cadash says and slings the quiver over one shoulder.

“Would it have made a difference?”

She should not be thrown by the directness of the question but she is. “Probably,” she says, as truthful as she can manage. “If only to appease Trenn. Missing an appointment with the Ambassador is one thing. Standing up the Inquisitor? Something else entirely.”

Lavellan clicks her tongue. “Your uncle. He was… very apologetic.”

Apologetic then means definitely furious now. “I will talk to him.” Cadash pauses. “And make more of an effort to attend the next one.”

The walk over to the spot from which Cadash usually shoots her arrows. Most of the keep is still asleep at this hour and the noises from the kitchens do not carry this far. Cadash can hear Lavellan breathing next to her and self-consciousness nestles in her chest all of a sudden. They do not usually talk in the mornings apart from greetings and goodbyes. The silence presses on her like a weight.

“Why did you go to the meeting anyway?” she asks, partially out of curiosity and partially to fill the silence.

Lavellan looks at her as if it is obvious. “I thought you would be there.”

Stupid fluttering heat blossoms in her chest and she shoos it away before it can take root. “You’ll have me blushing like a maiden, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan frowns at the use of her title as she always does and Cadash feels just the slightest pang of guilt. “I do not know a lot of people Josephine meets with. I thought it would be… useful,” Lavellan says. She shrugs but there is something stiff in the movement. “Why were you not there?”

Cadash considers lying, as she is prone to do. She could tell her she was drinking. Or gambling. Or sleeping. Any of the things half of the keep expects her to do at any given time anyway. She runs her fingers along the smooth wood of the bow and keeps her eyes on the ground. “You know Gatsi Sturhald? The one who works with those Tevinter mosaic tiles?”

“Since I am usually the one carrying those things all over Thedas, yes.”

“Oh yeah, right.” Cadash pauses. “He has some very interesting ideas about their origin and I had a theory. So I went to the library and did some research.” She looks up, waiting for Lavellan’s reaction.

“I did not take you for a scholar.” There is no judgement in her voice. No ridicule either, not that Cadash really expected it. Just mild surprise.

“What can I say? I’m a complex individual with varied interests.” She fears her grin falls flat but Lavellan dutifully rolls her eyes anyway. “Some of them are just not that essential to the family business.”

“I see,” Lavellan says after a moment’s pause. And somehow Cadash believes she really does.

“So,” Cadash says before awkward silence can fall between them once again. “Did I miss anything important? I might as well brace myself for my uncle’s lecture now.”

Lavellan snorts, a completely undignified and oddly delightful sound. “Well, Josephine is looking to make a deal with the Merchants’ Guild instead.”

Fuck. _Fuck._

Cadash can feel her face fall, like an amateur. “Well,” she says and grips her bow a little more tightly, “I’m sure my uncle was thrilled to hear that.”

Trenn will find a way to blame it on her, she knows that. And once her mother hears of this…

“I told her no,” Lavellan says, strangely calm.

Cadash’s head snap back up. She does not even care that her surprise can be seen so openly on her face. “You did?”

Lavellan shrugs and Cadash cannot tell if the frown in between her eyebrows is one of annoyance or of embarrassment. “We need lyrium. A lot of it. And in steady supply. I do not like the thought of being dependent on someone I do not know. Or trust.”

Now it is Cadash who snorts as the conversation has taken a turn to the absurd. “You trust the Carta?”

“Not the Carta.” Lavellan looks at her, her gaze calm. “You.”

Cadash wants to tell her she shouldn’t. She wants to tell her something smart.

She tells her something true instead.

“The Guild sells lousy product anyway.”

 

* * *

 

It is one of the busier nights at the Herald’s Rest and they are forced to move to the small table upstairs. Not that Cadash really minds. There is a headache slowly creeping from the back of her skull towards her temples and she appreciates the dim light and relative quiet of the first floor much more than she usually would. She suspects the afternoon of arguing with Trenn as the reason for the pounding in head. Talking to her uncle normally has that effect on her.

Judging from the dour look on Lavellan’s face as she sits down across from her, her day did not go any better.

“Rough day?”

The response she gets almost sounds like a snort. It has to be bad when Lavellan cannot even bring herself to use words.

“Look on the bright side,” Cadash says, trying hard for a cheery tone. “At least yours didn’t involve disgruntled dwarves accusing you of being a disappointment to the family.”

That does get her a raised eyebrow, at least. She also thinks she sees some of the tension leave Lavellan’s shoulders as she picks up her cider and drinks. It’s a start.

Then, a long sigh. “Worse actually,” Lavellan says. “It’s the Wardens.”

“Ah.” And just like that they have crossed over into dangerous territory. And Lavellan doesn’t even realize it. Cadash leans back in her chair and hopes that her discomfort isn’t too obvious. This happens sometimes. More often now than in the beginning. She knows that if she were to push, even just a little bit, Lavellan would tell her. Things only whispered behind the closed doors around the war table, carried straight to her, if she were to ask.

_Because she trusts you._ The thought is terrifying.

If anyone knew. If Trenn or Karik knew. Or worse, if her mother knew…

She could push and Lavellan would talk. So she doesn’t.

“Have I told you about the time the Wardens almost conscripted me in the Anderfels?” she asks instead, keeping her tone casual.

There is almost something like a smile on Lavellan’s lips as she leans forward. “You have not.”

“Oh, it’s a good one.” And it is. She only has to embellish a little bit to round on the edges. And perhaps she adds a giant or two. Because he knows that Lavellan loves stories with giants in them.

In any case, it has the desired effect. When she finishes her story, Lavellan’s frown is gone and so is the danger of her accidentally spilling the Inquisition's secrets to an outsider.

Lavellan laughs and takes a sip from her cider. “I never know if your life is really as interesting as you make it out to be or if you are just a very good liar.”

“Perhaps a bit of both,” Cadash says and winks, just for good measure. “But that’s nothing, really. You should hear the stories they tell about you.”

Lavellan cocks an eyebrow and takes another sip. “I’m sure they are riveting,” she says dryly.

Cadash grins, wondering just for a moment how far she will be able to take this. “They say you have a monstrous hand that can squash any demon into pulp.” A blatant lie. Even the rumor mill is not that creative. It does have the effect Cadash hoped for however.

Lavellan almost chokes on her cider, hiding the mishap with an irritated cough. “That is… new. It sure would make things easier.” She lifts the tankard to her lips again, pauses and gives Cadash a long hard look. The frown between her eyebrows has returned. “You don’t believe in such nonsense, do you?”

Smiling coyly, Cadash slowly sways the last bit of ale left in her tankard. “Of course not. But a girl wonders. And you are very secretive.”

Lavellan scoffs, just like Cadash expected her to. She has gotten used to the sound. “Not secretive. Private.”

“Same thing, really.” She taps one finger against the tankard. “Both end with me in the dark, left to envision the most gruesome explanations.”

Another scoff, this time accompanied by a little eye-roll. But there is something almost unsure in Lavellan’s eyes as she fixes Cadash with a stern look.

“It’s not pretty,” she finally says, her voice unusually quiet.

“What is?”

“The mark.”

Oh. _Oh._ Cadash wishes she could kick herself for being this stupid. Of course there is a reason why she has never seen the famous rift-closing mark before. Why Lavellan keeps it hidden underneath a black leather glove all the time.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “You don’t need to…”

“No.” Lavellan takes a deep breath. “If it helps to dispel the rumors.” It does not come out quite as casually as she probably intended but Cadash smiles anyway.

After another moment of hesitation, Lavellan then proceeds to carefully peel away the leather glove. Shielding it from the rest of the tavern by keeping her hands in the shadows, she lifts the glove’s hem just enough for Cadash to make out a jagged mark on her palm, pulsing with green light.

Lavellan was right. It’s not pretty. But it’s also not horrifying or disgusting. It looks a little strange. But then again, all magic looks a little strange to Cadash.

There is something almost vulnerable in Lavellan’s expression as she waits for her reaction. Cadash feels awful for goading her on. She clears her throat and smiles. It comes easier to her than she thought.

“Not monstrous at all,” she says and almost casually finished the rest of her ale. “Rather lovely, in fact.”

Even from the corner of her eye, she can see the flush creeping up Lavellan’s neck. “You don’t need to say that.”

But she sounds relieved so Cadash just shrugs and asks what she really wants to know. “Does it hurt?”

Lavellan pulls the glove back into position and hides her hands under the table. “Not really.” And then, after a moment of consideration, a little shrug. “Sometimes. It’s a small price to pay.”

It’s not worry, not quite. But there is something stirring in the back of Cadash’s mind. Something that makes her clench her teeth and urges her to reach out to touch Lavellan. She doesn’t but the grip around her tankard tightens.

She wishes she hadn’t asked. She wishes she had asked sooner.

She wishes and she cannot say what for.

 

* * *

 

“I want to show you something.”

Cadash lowers her bow and raises an eyebrow. Even after weeks of this, it is unusual for Lavellan to talk to her at all in the morning. Both of them are usually content with a quick greeting and each other’s presence. But now Lavellan fiddles awkwardly with her staff, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She looks a little bit like she did during her first visits to the tavern, completely out of her element.

Cadash is merciful and swallows the smart comment lurking just behind her teeth. By now she knows the signs. Knows when Lavellan is just one thoughtless remark from shutting down and fleeing. So she smiles instead and slings the bow over her shoulder. “What is it?”

A hint of irritation flashes across Lavellan’s face and she shakes her head. “It’s not here, obviously.” She makes a vague gesture in the direction of the keep. “You’d have to come with me.”

“You know, there are easier ways to get me to accompany you to your chambers.” She even throws in a little wink and it earns her the usual eye roll and huff.

“I think you’ll find this more interesting than my room.”

“Doubtful.” She puts away the bow and the quiver, ignoring the way something in the chest twinges unpleasantly. It’s an old game, she tells herself. The sting she feels hardly matters. “But I’m intrigued.”

Lavellan leads her through one of the many door leading to the lower levels of the keep and after just a few twists and turns, Cadash is hopelessly lost. Skyhold, for all its beauty and magic, is a maze. One that Cadash has still not figured out. She knows her ways from and to her room and all the important paths she walks every day. But apart from that, Skyhold remains a mystery. Not for Lavellan, however. She walks with purpose, as she does everything else. The fingers of one hand brushing over the rough stone walls, she leads them deeper and deeper into the belly of the keep. And then, after a few more turns and another long corridor, up a steep flight of stairs.

The room at the top seems familiar to Cadash. They must be close to the kitchens. She can smell the fresh bread and hear the bickering of the cook in the distance. But Lavellan leads her into the opposite direction, through another corridor, before finally stopping in front of a simple wooden door.

“I found this just last week,” she explains as she pulls a large iron key from her pocket. “There are still parts of the keep that are new to me.”

The thought is unsettling somehow but Cadash just smiles and waits for her to unlock the door. The hinges squeak loudly as the door swings open and it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dark. It is a small room and the smell of dust and old paper is almost overwhelming. Before she can say anything, Lavellan raises a hand and a few candles light at her command.

It’s a library.

Or it used to be before dust and spiders claimed it for their own. A few rodents probably as well. But still… Cadash steps inside, carefully as if afraid of treading on sacred ground. The room itself is just a few steps wide but the shelves that line the walls are so high they vanish into the darkness above, despite the candles. In the center, there is a large desk. An old tome, dusty and tarnished by age, still lies open on the tabletop. Cadash fully expects the pages to turn to dust when she steps forward to touch them but they hold, even as she turns one of them.

“This is incredible,” she says, a little breathless. “How is this possible?”

“Magic, I think.” Lavellan lights more candles. “It was like this when I found it. There is dust and spiders of course. But look at this.” She reaches for the quill and inkwell next to the book and carefully opens the top of the little pot. When she dips in the tip of the quill, it comes back black and shiny, a tiny drop dripping back into the pot.

“It’s still fresh. And this book…” Cadash turns another page, gently blowing away the dust and running a finger over the markings. “This is ancient Dwarven.”

“I thought it might be.” Lavellan sets the inkwell back onto the desk and straightens her back. “I know you said you weren’t a scholar. But you… you like these sorts of things.”

Cadash looks up from the book and cannot stop the grin that tugs at the corner of her mouth. “These sorts of things? You mean books?”

“Reading.” Lavellan’s tongue curls around the word as if it was burning the roof of her mouth. “They tell me you regularly quarrel with Dorian in the library.”

“Oh.” It’s almost silly how embarrassed she feels about it. It is the truth, there is no point in denying it. She just wasn’t aware that her visits to the library are public knowledge. That and her fights with the pesky Tevinter who likes to hog all the good books on the history of the Mortalitasi. “He doesn’t like to share.”

It’s just the hint of a smile, almost too faint to see in the low light of the candles and the way Lavellan ducks her head. “If you want, you can have this. There is a key. And… you can decide who to share it with.”

It takes a moment to sink in, painful seconds of silence in which all Cadash can do is stare at Lavellan. “You… are giving me this? You are giving me a library?”

Lavellan’s ears twitch. “Well, it’s more of a room full of spiders and dust that would have to be cleaned out. If it’s too much of a hassle, you don’t have to…” She does not meet her eye and perhaps that is what gives Cadash the courage to step forward and take her hand. For a moment, she thinks Lavellan is going to pull back, her whole body suddenly stiff and tense. But after a few breaths, she relaxes slightly.

“It’s no hassle,” Cadash says and squeezes her hand lightly. “It’s… Thank you.”

Lavellan’s gaze is steady and as somber as ever and Cadash thinks she can almost hear the little wheels turning behind her forehead. “I thought you might like it,” she says and it sounds a little bit like she wanted to say something else.

“I do.” She is still holding her hand, warm and slightly calloused from years of wielding a staff. It’s silent here, deep under the keep. The only sound their breathing and the blood rushing in Cadash’s ears. She could close the distance if she wanted to. She could.

Just one step, she tells herself.

_This will ruin you._

Something like pain flashes across Lavellan’s face, almost too quick to notice. But Cadash does and something pulls tight deep within her chest.

“I am leaving tomorrow,” Lavellan says and pulls her hand free. Steps back like it is nothing.

Cadash blinks. “What?”

“We need to go to the Western Approach. There have been sightings of Wardens.”

“Oh.” There is a nasty hollow feeling in her stomach and it takes her a moment to recognize it as what it is. Disappointment or something like it. Something she has no right to feel, in any case.

“We only decided on it today.” Lavellan says it like she needs to apologize for it and somehow that only makes it worse.

Cadash grips the edge of the desk and doesn’t know where to look. The small size of the library seems overwhelming all of a sudden. The walls too close and the darkness too much to bear. “I was wondering when the famed Inquisitor would leave the keep to do some worldsaving.” There is something nasty peppered among her words, a bite she cannot swallow fast enough. It’s utterly unfair and she sees Lavellan flinch as if she struck her.

Silence falls between them, the kind she thought they left behind them long ago. All the words burning on her tongue seem too much, somehow. Too strong, too open. Too honest.

_Don’t go._

It echoes somewhere deep in the back of her mind, repeated endlessly. She clicks her tongue, annoyed with herself.

“It’s a long journey,” she finally says. “And the desert can be… treacherous.”

“I know.” Lavellan looks just a little irritated and Cadash knows she deserves it. “I’m not going alone.”

“Of course not.”

More silence. The hollow feeling in her stomach won't go away. This should not be so painful. Has she really gotten so used to this? This little routine?

_Not the routine_ , a voice in her head whispers but that is a thought she cannot have. One she cannot follow to the end.

“I should…” Lavellan turns to leave, discomfort plain on her face.

“Thank you, again,” Cadash says. Too loud, too brash. But then again, isn’t she always?

Lavallen stops at the door, her shoulders tense. “I was wondering…” She shakes her head, just the smallest movement. “Will you still be here when I get back?”

The question stumps her, mostly because she is surprised that she hasn’t thought about this herself. Of course she knew that her stay at Skyhold was only meant to be temporary. Just for the negotiations. Just to make a deal. Even if she never attended another meeting with the Ambassador again, the others would come to a satisfactory arrangement at some point, even without her. And then, she would have to leave.

“I don’t know,” she says truthfully and the pit in her stomach feels a lot like dread all of a sudden.

“Oh.” It’s just a small sound and Cadash is not sure if she hears a hint of disappointment in it. If there was any, Lavellan hides it well in the straight line of her back and the blank expression on her face. “In any case, I should thank you. Our conversations have been... enjoyable.”

The word hits Cadash like a bucket of ice-cold water and she can feel her jaw clench. “Yes,” she says because everything more would break her. For one horrifying moment, she thinks that Lavellan is going to step forward and shake her hand. Instead, she just nods, her eyes cold and steady. Somehow, it’s even worse.

Lavellan leaves, letting the door fall shut behind her, and Cadash takes a shaky breath. She doesn’t care about the dust and the cobwebs as she sits down on the chair in front of the desk and buries her face in her hands.

She does not need to put a name to the feeling in her chest to know she has messed up.

_Shit._


	5. absent

Skyhold shouldn’t feel empty just because of the absence of one person. But it does. They say the keep is enchanted. Old elven magic flowing through every stone, from the highest tower to the undercroft below. Perhaps even deeper than that, into the mountain itself. And Lavellan is connected to it, like a daughter to a mother. She was remade here, birthed from ice and destruction, and given a new name. They still tell the story of how she brought down a mountain and buried herself, only to crawl from the depth, bloodied and broken. To lead them to safety. To lead them here.

Without her, it isn’t the same.

Cadash doesn’t stand on the battlements to watch her leave. She isn’t that far gone. Instead she curls up in bed and pretends to sleep in for once. It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. Her body is used to her early-morning training sessions by now. Craves them, really. She feels antsy and too hot underneath her thick wool blanket, the smoldering coals in the fireplace still heating up the room.

She closes her eyes and sees Lavellan’s face.

It’s too much. Groaning, she pushes back the blankets and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. This is a chance perhaps, she tells herself. Clear and determined, drowning out the other thoughts bubbling just underneath the surface. Whatever this is - and it is _something_ , there is no denying it - whatever it is, distance can only help. To cure her of this. To put an end to it.

_Will you still be here when I get back?_

Ah, there. Another chance. She doesn’t want to leave, not really. Life in Skyhold has been good to her, even without Lavellan. She is a guest here but apart from the negotiations with the Ambassador, she is invisible. Nobody to tell her what to do. Nobody to expect anything from her other than a game of Diamondback and perhaps a few coins for the next round of drinks. Back home… She tries to push the thought away from her but if she really was to leave, she will have to think about it sooner or later. If she isn’t here, she has to be somewhere else, naturally.

Lavellan has taken Bull with her, as well as the book-hogging Tevinter Altus and the spirit boy. Cadash is glad for it - she really doesn’t need anyone skulking around the tavern and reading her thoughts right now. She misses Bull, however. And the rest of the Chargers move out on another mission just two days after the Inquisitor’s departure. The Herald’s Rest turns dull without them and Cadash finds herself going there less and less.

“You look like someone who could use a drink,” an unfamiliar voice calls to her as she makes her way through the main hall. She has never talked to Varric before, one of the few dwarves in the keep and the only one in Lavellan’s inner circle. But she knows of him, of course. Has seen him around Skyhold before. His smile is honest now, open and inviting. With Lavellan gone, the main hall is also gloriously free of nobles and other petitioners, and he looks positively relaxed in his large chair by the fire. Tentatively, she approaches.

“I was actually on my way to the library,” she says.

Varric’s smile keeps. “It’s always a good idea to take advantage of Young Master Pavus’ absence. But I’m sure you have time for one glass of wine before he comes back. At least.” He winks. His smile is infectious, even though the deep lines around his eyes speak of a bone-deep weariness that doesn’t quite match.

She could refuse. Bury herself in research until her brain remembers to focus on what is truly important again. But she doesn’t want to be rude. And the wine on the table is Antivan after all…

As soon as she sits down, Varric hands her a brass goblet and fills it with wine. It’s infinitely better than anything they serve at the Herald’s Rest and Varric smiles at her pleased expression.

“From Josephine’s private stash,” Varric explains and refills her goblet. “I won it in a game of Wicked Grace .”

Cadash quirks an eyebrow. “From what I’ve heard that only makes it more impressive.”

“Just between you and me? I think she took pity on me and let me win that time.”

They drink in silence, both of them just enjoying the quiet of the hall in the Inquisitor’s absence. Cadash finds it’s easy with Varric. When the inevitable questions start, she is almost a little bit disappointed.

“So… Cadash, right?” He asks with the tone of someone who already knows the answer but she nods anyway. “Are you related to Oksana Cadash by any chance?”

She drinks instead of giving an answer even though it makes her stomach churn. He doesn’t eye her, not directly, but he is clearly waiting for a response. Then again, the fact that he is asking at all probably means he already knows.

“She’s my mother,” she says and makes a point of looking him in the eye as she does so.

“Really?” No surprise. He doesn’t even try to fake it. “Does the Lady Ambassador know that she is practically dealing with Carta royalty?” He speaks the word with as much ridicule as it deserves and she can actually feel her lips quirking up.

“I doubt I’d be here otherwise.”

He shrugs. “Probably true. Ruffles is not in the habit of negotiating with just anyone. And definitely not without learning all their secrets first.”

“Not many secrets there,” she says and they both pretend it’s not a blatant lie.

He leans forward on his elbows and smiles. “So does the Inquisitor know?”

She forces herself to take a steady breath. “The Inquisitor doesn’t care.”

“Ah.” The sound is altogether too pleased. “Now there is where the story starts to get interesting, doesn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know.” She shows him something twisted that might pass a grin. “I’m not one for storytelling.”

“That might just be the one lie I cannot tolerate.” But he just takes a sip from his goblet and leans back in his chair. He looks older like this, somehow. Just a trick of the shadows, she tells herself, but his slumped shoulders and the streaks of ash grey in his hair are difficult to ignore. “I admit I do not know much about your family apart from what everyone knows. But I heard about your sister.” His hand twitches as if he considers reaching out to touch her. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

It has been a while since anyone has talked to her about it or approached her with condolences. Leaving helped. Running helped. Skyhold helped. “Thank you,” she says and hates how pathetic and small her voice still sounds, even after all these months.

“I lost a brother myself,” Varric says and doesn’t meet her eye. “It is rough.”

“The roughest.” It’s all she can say and she presses her lips into a thin line just to keep herself from speaking.

“That means you are the oldest now?”

She watches him carefully but there is no malevolence in his curiosity. “Unless my mother has some secret children stashed away somewhere, yes.”

Varric’s lips curl into a smile. “And she still sent you here?”

“She has high hopes for the Inquisition.”

Her disinterest must be plain enough on her face because Varric’s expression grows pensive as he looks at her. “No intention to inherit the kingdom one day, Princess?”

She snorts at both the notion and the nickname. “There is no kingdom to inherit. Only debts and favors. People. A name.”

“I know about names.” He watches her over the rim of his goblet. “They are not entirely useless if you know how to use them.”

Cadash shrugs and looks into the fire. “They shouldn’t matter that much.”

Varric makes a sound, something between amusement and contemplation. “Not to the right people, perhaps.”

 

Varric lets her go with the rest of the Antivan wine and promises to meet up for drinks and Wicked Grace in the near future. Despite the interrogation, despite the topics that feel like prodding a fresh wound, she likes him.

She planned to scavenge the main library while Dorian was out but her feet carry her to her own library instead. It’s still a bit dusty and there is something about the darkness that even a dozen candles can not fully eradicate. But she cleaned the place as best as she could and filled the empty spots in the shelves with books - some from her own collection and others that would surely be missed from the main library once Dorian came back from the Western Approach.

With a little sigh, she plops down into the large chair in front of the desk. The memory of Lavellan is fresh here, like a scent she cannot quite get out. If this was the last she’d ever see of her... The way she looked back at her from the door, hurt and disappointed and already putting miles and miles between them.

_The Inquisitor doesn’t care._

It was so easy to say - the truth slipping through before she could even think about it. Because Lavellan has to know, there is no other way. Not with three advisors whispering into her ear. Not with the Nightingale who reads people’s secret like others read a book. But Lavellan never even asked her about it. Not once.

And has she not repaid her in kind? The training yard in the morning, the tavern at night. There was no Inquisitor there, not really. No titles, no names. In the shadows of the library, there was no Inquisitor until Cadash messed it up. Until Cadash invoked the name.

She leans back, her chest painfully tight. The ink in the ancient little pot is still fresh when she reaches for the quill.

She starts with apologies and rips up three attempts before settling for something simpler.

 

She doesn’t mean to circumvent Leliana when she chooses one of the Carta’s own ravens instead of one of the Inquisition’s. It just seems easier to her, less of a hassle. Of the three ravens they brought with them to Skyhold, there is only one left in their cage down by the gardens. It’s a sad measly bird that pecks at her fingers when she reaches into the cage but it looks well enough to make the trip to the Western Approach.

“His name is Puk.”

She turns around to find Karik standing just a few steps behind her, one of the two missing birds perched on his arm.

“You named them?”

“Of course I did.” Karik grins and lets the bird hop into its cage. “We trust them with our messages, after all.” He gently runs a finger over Puk’s feathers. “Are you finally sending a letter to your mother?” His attempt at not sounding judgmental fails spectacularly but Cadash just huffs.

“No, it’s for a friend.”

He cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as he helps her fasten the message to Puk’s leg. It doesn’t escape Cadash’s notice that the treacherous birds doesn’t even attempt to peck at his fingers.

“You know that all messages concerning the Inquisition are supposed to go through the rookery, right?” Karik asks as they watch the bird take off into the steel-grey winter sky.

“Who says this has anything to do with the Inquisition?”

She feels his eyes on her. She has known him long enough to know that he is aching to say something, tension clearly visible in the line of his shoulders. They must burn on his tongue. The warnings, the reprimands. The genuine concern. But he doesn’t say anything, not even when she turns around and leaves him behind in the gardens.

 

Lavellan’s response arrives two weeks later, not by raven but by one of Leliana’s people who knocks on Cadash’s door in the early hours of the morning. There is no wax seal but Cadash is still certain that the letter has been opened. She really shouldn’t be surprised.

“Sister Nightingale would like me to remind you that you are more than welcome to use one of the Inquisition’s ravens,” the messenger tells her, his smile perfectly polite.

Cadash rubs the sleep from her eyes. “Does she now?”

“She’d prefer it.”

“I bet she would.” It’s not really anger that makes her blush. More embarrassment than anything else. At being caught, perhaps. It’s not like she purposefully tried to deceive anyone but the messenger’s visit still feels like a slap on the wrist.

She closes the door and retreats back to bed, trying not to unfold the letter immediately, even though it almost burns her fingertips. It’s silly, she thinks. They are just words.

 

* * *

 

_18th Haring, 9:41 Dragon_

_Dear Cadash,_

_I am in good health, although the same cannot be said for your raven. Where did you find this pitiful thing? It arrived here wheezing and with only half its feathers left. I have to believe that you did not send the poor creature on its journey looking like this and that it was the long way down here that has exhausted it so. Otherwise I would have to think you cruel. I’m afraid you will have to do without it for a while as it will stay with me until I return to Skyhold. It has taken a liking to a particular type of Tevinter seeds that Dorian always carries with him. I had to agree to the purchase of a ridiculously long list of book for the library just to procure them for the bird. If this was your attempt at getting me to be more social, congratulations, you have succeeded._

_There is not much else to tell you. The Western Approach is as miserable and dry as the Storm Coast is dreadful and wet. The Iron Bull was bitten by a venomous lizard which none of our scouts could identify. It was a pretty purple thing but unfortunately its bite turned Bull’s finger into a similar shade._

_I am glad to hear that work on the library is going well. The darkness might be due to a spell. If you want, I can take a look at it when I get back to Skyhold. That is if you are still there when I return._

 

_Yours,_

_L._

 

* * *

 

_3rd Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon_

_Dear Lavellan,_

_I am stumped. Bewildered. Amazed. If I did not recognize your handwriting, I’d accuse you of having someone else write your letters for you. We should get you a piece of slate and some chalk for your next meeting with nobles. I believe you’d utterly charm them with your written words._

_I’m afraid I might have offended your spymaster by choosing one of our own birds. Now that you’ve taken the poor thing hostage, I am forced to use her ravens. Proper protocol and everything. Such a pain. Don’t let the bird get too fat and comfortable. He still needs to be able to fly. And be careful with your fingers. He likes to peck._

_It does not look like we will be leaving Skyhold anytime soon. Lady Montilyet has asked us to oversee the lyrium shipments personally and there is even some talk about using some of the Carta’s other connections in the Free Marches. It’s all terribly scandalous and terribly boring at the same time._

_Also, Karik has taken to training with Krem in the mornings. Apparently my dilettante attempts at hand-to-hand combat were not enough to satisfy him anymore. Instead, he now prefers to be pummeled by someone who carries a maul almost as ridiculously big as his own. A perfect match, really. And they draw quite the crowd. You should watch the spectacle once you get back._

_I hope you will soon return to the safety of your keep and the comfort of the Herald’s Rest. Unless you have taken a liking to the desert with all its sand and its strange venomous lizards. Nothing surprises me much about you anymore._

 

_Until then I remain your most faithful smuggler friend,_

_Cadash_

 

* * *

 

_16th Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon_

_Dear Cadash,_

_Words are easier when I do not have to look people in the eye as I say them. And there is little room for misinterpretation when I don’t have to look out for their facial expressions or gestures or make an effort to sound polite. What does that even mean? You are either polite or you are not. It makes no sense to me. (Do not tell Josephine. She will only have me write letters to dreadful nobles for the rest of the war.)_

_I am glad to hear that you are staying. The Iron Bull is as well. He would write to you himself but his finger, while less purple, is still swollen. I might be just an excuse because I am fairly certain I have seen him write reports for the Ben-Hassrath just a few days ago. And he still manages to swing that axe of his._

_I do not know why you’d be worried about your raven pecking. He is perfectly tame with me. Granted, it could have something to do with the seeds. Perhaps you should try bribing him as well._

_We leave for Skyhold in the morning and I think we are all glad for it. It has been a long journey. I never thought I would say this but I almost miss the snow and ice of the Frostbacks. Also the tavern, which I find even stranger. And I shall like to see your cousin and Krem in the yard. Although I do not like an audience. Perhaps we need to find a new spot for our own training._

_Once this reaches you, we will be halfway back to Skyhold._

 

_I will see you soon,_

_L._

 

* * *

 

They send a scout ahead to inform the keep of the Inquisitor’s return and when her party reaches the lower camps in the valley, they send another. Cadash wakes when the large horn on the battlements sounds the Inquisitor’s return, echoing from the mountainsides until she thinks she can feel the vibrations in her very bones.

Three blasts for the Inquisitor.

She doesn’t stay in bed this time but braves the icy winds atop the battlements with the others as they watch Lavellan and her party make their way up the winding mountain path. Just before they pass the large gate below, Lavellan pushes back her hood and looks up. Cadash doesn’t think she can see her in the crowd but she waves anyway.

She isn’t that far gone, she tells herself. And then twice more, just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Passion Pit's "Moth's Wings", which served as sort of an inspiration.  
>  _"Put down your sword and crown_  
>  _Come lay with me on the ground"_
> 
> You can also follow my [tumblr](http://damnable-rogue.tumblr.com) if you're interested.


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